Greyshen beamed while Vantra turned her face to the left, to the right, and gently touched the wavy strands of dark purply red hair cascading down her chest. Red knew about transforming one’s image, but the sanctshade made it accessible. Kjaelle suggested, that before they left that morning, he introduce her to his façade-changing spells because he had a simpler way of manipulating his essence that did not rely on holding complicated magic in place.
He patted her shoulders and stepped back from the chair. “Qira enjoys the complicated,” he told her. “And while there’s time aplenty for that, you need a quicker solution.”
“I’m not going to have to worry about my appearance and holding it true,” she said, smoothing her chin. Greyshen had taken several photographs from all sides before they delved into molding her face into a fuller-cheeked, pointier-chinned countenance, changing her hair from a dull brunette to a rich purplish red. Her trepidation over the transformation evaporated as she twirled the strands.
While alive, she had bleached her tresses a few times, and let her hair grow out so she had lighter ends, but she never kept the look for long, reverting to the uninteresting brown. While she thought her hair lifeless, she preferred it that way as a push-back against the temple nags who hounded her constantly about her mother’s beauty and her plainness. She should have had surgery to refine her features, make them more Sun-ny, bleached her hair so golden locks flowed from her head like sun rays. The subtle defiance followed her to the Evenacht, but she now had a dire reason to change her appearance, and if it aided her in a smoother Redemption of Laken, she needed to snatch the opportunity.
She patted her hair into place, then trailed her fingers along the thick braids that met in the back and hung loose after the binding. She loved the darker color, even more so than the bright red!
“This was the first way I learned to change my appearance,” the other ghost admitted. “I created and styled wigs while alive, and I wanted to continue my art. Of course, I needed to produce ghost-friendly products, which meant learning the Physical and Mental Touch aspects to make it possible.” He shook his head. “That proved far more daunting to me than being dead!”
Vantra nodded. “It’s quite the shock.”
“Not as much for me. I expected the Tunnel, so in that respect, I had an easier time of it.” He chuckled. “Still, I’m very young for a ghost; just over three hundred. For me, the difficulties of transitioning from living to death came from being an older, respected voice who was suddenly a youngster again and whom no one paid much attention to—and my elders were thousands of years older than myself. Claiming that eighty-two years made me wise was met with unmitigated laughter.”
Vantra felt that to her core. “I’ve only existed for a total of twenty-four. Many Finders considered me a child.”
He waved his hand. “Ancient ghosts forget that experiences shape maturity,” he said. “Some children have adulthood responsibilities at tender ages, while some adults have wallowed in luxuries their entire existence and don’t even know what end of a brush to hold because they leave such trivial things to the servants who care for them.”
“Why be a servant in the Evenacht?” Vantra asked, shaking her head.
“Change, for some beings, is a monstrosity,” he told her. “The ever-the-same of dull drudgery under an authority figure is their perfect existence. That is the promise of the Evenacht for spirits, to exist as you wish.”
It did not seem much of a perfect existence to her, but she redirected her sour thoughts. “Were you a Darkness acolyte while alive?”
Greyshen nodded, his eyes twinkling at inner reflections. “Towards the end, yes. I saw comfort in shadows, something I raced away from during my younger years. I always thought it repressive, a way to hide that which never should be hid, but I misunderstood many things in my lust for acceptance. Darkness reveals as much as Light. I suppose that relies on viewpoint, but the bright light considered holy by so many can blind others to malevolent deeds, far more so than the dark. Qira’s experiences attest to that.”
“I always thought that a story,” she admitted, rising from the padded chair and pushing it against the pristine vanity. Several glass containers tinkled at the bump, a surprisingly musical chorus. “Syimlin needed backstories to prove their holiness. But it really happened.”
“Yes. The stories preached while I was alive downplayed what those lads went through because reality is too much for the typical Light acolyte to contemplate. It brings up uncomfortable questions concerning the previous Light, and deities in general. Did he condone that gauntlet and the deaths of those boys? If not, why didn’t he say something? If he did say something and his adherents ignored his words, exactly how effective are deities in promoting morality? Must they harm their followers to get them to listen?”
Vantra blinked, stared, her mind whirling around concepts she never would have considered, had he not just shared them. Greyshen’s smile widened, and he patted her upper arm in comfort.
“I know, pondering such can make one uneasy, particularly since some syimlin dislike their acolytes questioning the goings-on of deities. Sun, however, is not one of them. I always assumed, him being the eldest syimlin, he’d be the most hidebound. And I was wrong.” He ushered her out of the space lit and decorated to resemble an actor’s dressing room, resplendent with multi-colored, styled wigs set between richly tailored and intricate fashions from many cultures, and into his parlor, where the mini-Joyful awaited her reveal.
Greyshen’s cottage, a multi-roomed affair of muted, soft blacks mingled with a bright punch of blazing color, enchanted her. She had no experience with such a residence, and she pondered how she might have made her small abode in Evening more to her liking. At the time she thought that anathema, and while it suited her need to bury herself in study and not worry about exterior décor, she realized she wanted more concerning the exploration of her person and space than she allowed herself in the city.
Traveling with the caravan presented her with odd opportunities for self-discovery, and she did not know whether to find comfort or unease in that.
“Oooohhh,” Kjaelle said, brightening in delight. “That’s a wondrous color on you!”
Vantra touched the strands cascading over her shoulders, embarrassed at the assessment. Did she deserve the accolades? Greyshen did most of the work!
“She shines in darker hues of red,” the sanctshade agreed. “Though that bright crimson is a magnificent color as well.” He pointed at his perfectly defined, cat-eye liner. “And, if she’s found out, I instructed her on how to tweak the look and use makeup in her favor. It will not prevent the overly curious Finders from hounding her if they suspect her identity, but I doubt many will investigate, especially if they find the task a demeaning demand from superiors.”
“Or too dangerous,” Kjaelle commented. “Red’s sent the bulk of them back to Evening as discorporated essences. Casual Finders won’t want to end up like that.”
“I don’t know,” Red said, elbow on the couch arm, cheek in his palm, studying her new appearance with a critical eye. “They tend to have an inflated opinion of their talent. Bregarde still thinks he has the upper hand, and where is he? In a cell, unable to get out, even with the help of his compatriots.” He nodded to himself. “I see Vantra, but the changes are enough that anyone who isn’t intimately familiar with you won’t recognize you. It will buy us some time.”
“You’ve planted a huge target on the mini-Joyful’s backside,” Katta reminded him. “They may not recognize her in particular, but we in general are hard to miss.”
“Qira will just use the stink spell again,” Tally said morosely.
“He better not discorporate us,” Mera grumbled.
Red pursed his lips at them, but since Kjaelle heartily agreed, did not press the point.
Everyone rose as Greyshen headed for the door. They needed to vacate before nosy Finders dove into why their mafiz ended up an essence puddle in front of the Hallowed Collective. The teasing the Light acolyte received about making a production of the drop-off only earned them a wide smile and a refusal to speak of it—which, Kjaelle intimated, meant he did something nasty they all would regret, likely sooner rather than later.
Like luring a more powerful Collective operative into the open? Vantra did not look forward to the ensuing conflict.
Vesh, Cotri and Lorgan busily tied two crates of research to the top of Kjaelle’s wagon, while Verryn, Jheeka and Cheldisa wrangled the third into place atop Red’s. Jheeka noticed them first and cast her a soft grin before jumping to the ground.
“Good luck reading all that,” she called. Vantra winced while Red and Katta laughed.
“Dull nights, meet dull research,” Red said. Lorgan, exasperated, looked ready to protest but rethought and kept his grumbling to himself. His thrill in conducting research did not necessarily reflect their interest.
Laken sat cozily in the stand Vesh and Cotri constructed for him, eagerness brightening his visage. He dimmed at her approach; after he realized Lorgan planned to accompany them, he refused to speak to her. His gaze focused on the horses’ rumps, a pointed signal he wanted her to leave him alone. So be it. She did not expect him to welcome their new companion, but she thought blaming her unwarranted.
She glanced back at the Shades’ enclave, hoping to return after the Redemption. She had not explored the grounds as she wished, and her initial impression of vacant country hotel had morphed into cozy forest cottage getaway.
Or maybe the fountains proved that addicting.
Katta paused and frowned, then held up his hand as if grasping something unseen. Greyshen narrowed his eyes and looked to the main road. Red lifted his lip and Vantra observed a subtle darkness infusing the air, a creep of shadows that, without the prompt from the older ghosts, she doubted she would have noticed.
“Do they plan to attack a Shades enclave with darkness?” the sanctshade asked, folding his arms and tapping his slippered foot.
“They are exceptional at making poor decisions,” Red muttered. “Insults, unprovoked searches, snarling and wailing . . .”
“Your opinion of them has improved,” Katta said. “Greyshen—”
“We’ll be fine,” he assured the spirit. “Our enclave is a resilient entity.”
Cotri hopped to the ground and held up his arm; black lightning shot from his palm in both directions, forming a spear with a wicked point the length of Vantra’s leg and wrapped in grey-purple mist. He confidently strode to Greyshen as Kjaelle snagged her shoulders and hustled her inside the wagon. Katta and Lorgan followed, with Verryn and Red hopping into the other.
“Jheeka and Cheldisa are fine with staying here?” she asked, waving to the two through the window as the vehicle lurched into motion.
“Yes,” Lorgan said. “They’re as eager to snarl about the Finders as Greyshen is to hear about them. Hopefully they can provide a list of potential Knights. That will tell us who to avoid.”
“You mean interrogate,” Kjaelle said drily as she jerked on the leather ties holding the items on the shelves.
“Qira will not let the opportunity slip by,” Katta agreed as he settled down on a crate. “He’s already invested in embarrassing them in hopes they continue their attacks.”
“Finders can prove daunting foes, and when backed by the Hallowed Collective, dangerous enemies,” Lorgan said.
Kjaelle hmphed and planted herself on the bed. “Finders will realize their mistake, as Nolaris did when he messed with me. Katta and Qira don’t find fake piety endearing and react accordingly.”
Katta chuckled. “And your opinion has also improved.”
She kicked her foot at him, annoyed at the assessment.
Early morning soft haze gave way to deep afternoon shadows, as the wagons entered the Dark proper. Amused, Katta moved to join Kjaelle on the bed so Vantra could take his seat and stare out the larger side window without his head in the way. Her other companions may have walked through the wood during numerous excursions, but her excitement over her first foray into the wilds refused to disappear.
Long branches still resplendent with late-year leaves spanned the road, providing shade and coolness to a warmer day. Piles of orange and red and yellow littered the ground for as far as she could see, edges ruffling in the gentle breezes sifting through the trunks. The further her eye traveled, the darker the wood became until the trees disappeared in a midnight blue haze. She had read that in the depths of the Dark, because of the thick canopy created by Darkness evengreens, one could barely see a body-length past tangled thrush bushes and tall, moist Tul ferns.
She especially wanted to visit Veer’s Retreat, the darkest, most remote part of the expanse. Books detailed how it remained lush and green and warm, even during the coldest season. Snow lay atop the intertangled upper canopy, and heat from the soil melted the cold white stuff, providing a constant shower of water for thirsty plants below. Winds did not blow past the trunks, so the air remained hot and still. The branches were so woven together, that when a tree died, instead of falling, the wood would break at the base and hang mid-air, discarding rotten parts until little more than a hollow grey trunk remained. The remaining cylinders provided homes for bats, birds and insects.
Ghostly scholars found the conditions irksome, so few delved into why the soil produced enough heat to melt snow at the tops of trees. The lack of explanation added to her want to walk there and bask in the glory of the unknown.
“Are you sure you’re a Sun acolyte?” Kjaelle asked. Startled, she stared at the elfine while Katta chuckled.
“She is,” he said. “But she also understands Darkness cradles, and Light sings the lullaby.” He glanced out the window. “It’s rare, to encounter someone who sees past the supposed dichotomy. Did you know, Sun was the first to recognize the mystical link between Darkness and Light?”
“No!”
“He saw the shadows the light produced and knew both were necessary for life. It wasn’t until Talis and Veer Tul, however, that his reflection took form. They liked each other well enough to delve into that bond. Darkness before Veer was a nymph who despised human Talis and all he represented.”
“Then why did he hand the Darkness mantle to a human?” Lorgan asked with dry amusement.
“He didn’t. Funny, how the religious warped his fall. His was not the egregious destruction the Beast later enjoyed, but he possessed a penchant for dark and deadly things. He saw Veer practicing a gentler Darkness, saw the attraction so many had for it, and it infuriated him. He sought to destroy him and found defeat instead because he could only draw power from deep darkness, while his opponent accepted softer shadows and shades as well. He lost his Gift to Veer, and Old Man Death relegated him to the Evenacht. Here he sits, rotting from the inside out through dark thoughts and darker deeds.”
Vantra shuddered, though she did not know why.
Sweet-pitched but frightened chirps and fluttering wings filled the air. The wagon slowed as the flutter became a rush. Katta hopped off the bed as palm-sized black avians zipped through the window and planted themselves against his arms, tangled in his hair, and snagged the front of his shirt, shuddering.
Fluff covered the creatures’ puffy chests, though the longer wing feathers looked ratted rather than smooth and flight-worthy. Bony legs with rough black skin ended in long, white talons sharp enough to pierce Katta’s clothing. Their round, wet-furred heads sported wide, completely black eyes, a stubby nose with huge nostrils, and a thin-lipped mouth with a fang growing from the center of the upper jaw and down past the non-existent chin.
The altar to the Sun, which sat, strapped with Kjaelle’s things on the bottom left-hand shelf, blazed an ominous red; all eyes turned to it, and Vantra smacked her hand against her chest, upset she stored her Sun badge with her other gear in one of the wardrobe chests. Why continually wear it when her companions knew her affiliation? But she should have, anyway, because its warnings were important.
“Hmm. It’s more sensitive than I originally thought,” Katta said, pondering the pyramid.
Thick clouds blacker than midnight billowed from the ground. The trees, the bushes, disappeared in darkness, but the fog remained at the edges of the road; Vantra had no explanation as to why it did not swallow them. Lorgan’s eyes bulged while Kjaelle opened the slot between the driver’s seat, accepting Laken from Vesh.
“Should we stop?” the driver asked. “The carolings are clinging to anything they can sink their talons into, and the road is only visible for a short distance in front of the horses’ noses.”
“Better?” Katta asked as soft yellow illumination poured through the slot.
Vesh laughed. “Yeah.”
“What kind of magic is that?” Kjaelle asked, her eyebrows pulled low as she handed the captain to Vantra. “Its base is darkness, but there’s something else within.”
“This particular combination of spell had a home with the Aristarzian and the Nymphic Rebellious some twenty-thousand years to seventeen thousand years previous,” the older ghost replied. Both Kjaelle and Lorgan’s attention riveted to him, while Vantra peered out the window, fright leaping up and down her being as she scanned the shoulder of the road for a hint of attack.
Why did the mini-Joyful so casually accept threats?
“That’s an odd spell, for the Aristarzian,” Lorgan said, skeptical.
“The first practitioners thought the Aristarzian had corrupted their people with their infatuation with pure light and attempted to introduce deep cracks and fissures for a ‘reality-based’ foundation. Talis told them to stop because of the unintentional harm they caused, and his lack of support led to their failure, but the Rebellious found the concepts worth saving. They invented Lyric Lynes to circle their encampments and store these spells, then triggered eruptions of magic when enemies closed in. Their effectiveness drove the Greater Elfine Thevollfolyn mad. They attempted to break the enchantments without proper study and ended up obliterating their forces instead. For a people who thought themselves the holy incarnation of the Moon’s will and therefore untouchable, their assaults became an embarrassment that ultimately fractured their religious foundations.”
The long, powerful sound of a horn blew near them. Vantra shuddered as her essence vibrated, and by the reaction of the others, they experienced the same sensation—except for Katta. He regarded the window with annoyed disdain before cupping one of the caroling in his palms and placing it next to Kjaelle.
“Kjaelle will guard you,” he said, his deep, seductive tone quieting the lot. They fluttered over to the elfine, much to Vantra’s surprise; how had he convinced wild creatures to obey?
A wisp of white swept past the window, long strands trailing behind, a skull peeking out from under the wavering hood. As a ghost expecting other spirits to appear as living as possible, the façade terrified her. Finders told cautionary stories of entities who preferred the macabre and horrific in choosing a spiritual guise, but she never encountered one in Evening, and wished that streak had continued.
“Aren’t the Vallic a bit out of their territory?” Kjaelle asked as another wisp shot past the window, in the opposite direction, grey-purple magic sizzling over them.
“Since they normally keep to the depths of the Dark, yes,” Katta said. He shook his head, glanced at the rest of them, then raised an eyebrow at Vantra. “The Vallic were non-Talis invaders from the north who hired on as mercenaries with the Nymphic Rebellious in an attempt to make inroads into the continent. In that respect, having this Darkness spell hide their actions makes sense.”
She frowned. Had her ignorance shown so plainly? “Non-Talis invaders? Shouldn’t they have their own evening lands?” she asked, confused.
“Yes, and these are the ones who wanted to remain in the Evenacht. The rest departed for the Warm Isles.”
Vantra did not know much about the evening lands associated with other Sensour cultures. Historians said that fifteen death deities worked with Erse Parr to destroy the interstellar invaders, far less than the thousands referred to in literature and religious texts from around the world. They attempted to divine whether the sixteen represented the total of the death deities, or if some refused to help, and if so, why. The broader population of divinities, suddenly revealed to be extant and magic-heavy rather than ancient fictions meant to scare populaces into obedience, declined to discuss it, and scholars scrambled to discern how many beings claimed godhood, and how many storytellers had judiciously created.
She had decided other death deities refused to help after she perused several Return Harbor photographs printed in a recent history about the Evenacht continent of Fading Light. The northwestern one, found at the tip of The Sun Plains, and the southeastern one, found at the bottom of The Transformation, showed hundreds of ships bearing the black Return flag with a white ring in the center. She had carefully studied those humongous, ocean-going vessels designed to whisk the newly deceased originally from other Sensour religions and regions to their own happily ever afters, enchanted with the thought of visiting those distant places. Unfortunately, while the boats carried correspondence between divided families, few beings casually traveled between lands. Deathly divines did not see themselves as conduits for tourists.
Which was why she assumed the Evenacht did not house non-Talis ghosts for extended lengths of time. Well, except the interstellar invaders; no one, as far as Finders knew, had yet discovered a way to transition those souls from Sensour to their home planet. Rumor said Erse Parr worked with the Gabridarço leader of the city of Badeçasyon to find a way of safe travel between the two, but interstellar ghostly space voyage proved a difficult problem to overcome.
The horn blaring in her ear shocked Vantra from her ruminations. Now was not the time to let her mind wander! She glanced at the window as a spirit blew the instrument again, head tipped back, hood absent. Scraggly hair streamed from the skull, and the black eye socket gleamed a scarlet red. How silly, the being putting the tip to their teeth; they obviously had no inner air to thrust through it.
“Whom do they hold in such high esteem, they’ve left their territory?” Kjaelle asked. Vantra noted the carolings clustered in her lap, and she had leaned over, her arms about them in protection.
“They may still owe debts to the one casting the Darkness spell,” Katta said. “The mercenaries promised much they did not fulfill in the ensuing battles. A Rebellious curator by the name of Klefathyrin cursed them in the name of Old Man Death to always answer a nymph call, and that transitioned into an after-death summons that those remaining here have yet to shake. When a Rebellious curator orders their support, they can’t say no—though they can turn right around and leave after they’ve arrived because they weren’t instructed to actually help. Curses are funny things.”
“I wonder if the ghost who summoned them is a Finder,” the elfine said. “Why else would someone from the Rebellious bother with us? I don’t recall having met anyone claiming that affiliation.”
Katta shook his head. “At least someone who admitted it. Later nymph generations hold them in low regard, so they hide the association.”
The wagon lurched; the stowed items rattled, the carolings, both inside and out, peeped in numbing fear and fluttered their wings. Vantra tipped back and Lorgan caught her before she landed in an embarrassing heap on the floor.
Something slammed into the side opposite her, and wood groaned and snapped as the vehicle skidded. Carolings shot into the air, terrified, and the shrieks of those outside rose to a fevered pitch. Another thud, and Vesh shouted something drowned under a loud crack as the wagon wheels scraped against the road. She and the scholar tumbled to the floorboards while the table tilted up and smacked into Katta. He slammed his hand onto the top; it crashed back into place and did not move while the crates toppled over and multiple powders puffed into the air.
A third hit thrust the wagon over its wheels. Everything slid towards the open-window side. Vantra screamed as she banged into the shelving, nearly dropping Laken.
A pause, and the vehicle returned to an upright position, rocking back and forth before settling. She slid back to the floor, her essence jarring at impact.
Katta, dark swirling in angry streaks about him, hopped over Vantra and Lorgan and slammed the door open. They faced the forest, the wagon almost shoved into the bushes. Circling and weaving about them, midair, were skeletal ghosts with elongated arms and necks but no legs, hoods hiding their visages but for the red gleam of the eyes. Several rode two-legged, enormous-headed mounts, though she could not tell the species from the bones displayed. Essence hurled from them and curled into nothing as their speed increased.
Katta stepped down, and the foliage drew away, creating a wide space for him to stand. The ghosts retreated, refusing to pass over the edge of the impromptu clearing.
Verryn strode into view from the tipped side of the wagon, rubbing at his right palm. “They broke the front axle, and Vesh snapped the tongue to save the horses,” he said. Kjaelle growled, rage infusing her; the carolings squeaked in cute, high-pitched tones before burying themselves behind the objects knocked askew on the shelves. She subsided, but the glare she gifted the attackers did not go unnoticed, and several slid back, placing even more distance between them and their foe.
Katta raised an index finger, a clear demand for silence, and looked further into the foggy trees.
White, billowing essence flowed from a ghost astride a skeletal horse, each step sending flickers through the façade. The spirit slowly clop-clopped to them, their head hidden inside the darkness of a hood, so only the reds of the eye sockets remained visible.
The transparency did them a disservice; Vantra noted the fingers clenching the reins in nervousness. Considering the controlled rage emanating from the ancient Darkness acolyte, she would think twice about confronting him, too.
She glanced at Lorgan; he wavered between uncertainty and curiosity, though the weak smile he gave her meant that uncertainty led the other. He sat up and she struggled into an upright position, Laken squeezed to her chest sideways. She turned him so he could see; the anxiety wrinkling his face depressed her. How poorly she did, in protecting him.
Horns blared around them; the ghost raised a bony arm, and the sounds ceased.
“I did not expect—”
“Why do you attack?” Katta asked, his voice freezing the gravelly intonation of the other. “A call too much for you?”
The red glows narrowed to slits of fire. “We respect a plea for help.”
“Respectful is not how I define Vallic intentions. Who summoned you.”
The spirit shuddered under the command, held up a hand to stave off the demand, but lost before they completed the action. “Ruthynrade.”
“Who is?”
“A Rebellious curator.”
“So I gathered. Why does she attack us?”
“She searches for an elden head, a fallen Finder, a dark star. They are enemies, they are forfeit.”
“Truly. And who does she name a dark star?”
“She did not say. Only that they swim in Darkness.”
“And whom did you assume she meant, that you willingly followed her orders?”
A breathy hiss escaped from the ghost before they whined. “You.”
Kjaelle sighed. She slid from the mattress, slipped past Vantra and Lorgan, and hopped down from the wagon, joining Vesh as he planted himself just behind the ancient ghost, hands clasped behind his back. Verryn leaned against the doorframe, his stance more guard-like than casual, and Vantra felt grateful for the protection. The skull-centric spirits unnerved her.
“You really are this stupid?” the elfine asked, her voice tearing through the screeching of the re-energized ghosts. “Knowing that Katta and Qira run hand in hand as Darkness and Light in the Evenacht?”
“It is a false declaration.”
“Is it, now?”
Red’s voice drifted to them, carrying the searing bite of a blacksmith fire and the freezing contempt of a blizzard. Queasiness infected Vantra, and by Lorgan and Laken’s looks, they expected bad things to happen. Kjaelle glanced at them and smiled in reassurance, though her anger overrode the comfort.
Intense golden rays streaked through the fog, severing the spell and casting all in a cleansing brightness. The Light acolyte took his position next to Katta, Mera and Tally flanking him, as the ghosts shrieked and covered their heads with their arms, the non-mounted beings fleeing into the darker shadows of the forest. The clouds fell to the ground, puffing up in a dusty haze before settling on the clumpy soil. The earth swallowed the remaining magic, leaving behind green sparkles.
The mounted spirits spun around them faster, chittering and screeching, terrifying the carolings. More of the small avians careened into the wagon, causing Verryn to duck down to avoid a smack to the head. They joined the others in hiding among the glasses and boxes; several surrounded the Sun altar, which cast an ever-darkening red glow onto the shelf.
Vantra moved Laken to her elbow and set her hand on the floor. “Anznet emi.” Shields swam over the wagon and around Verryn. A bad feeling about the confrontation coursed through her, especially since the altar’s warning had not abated. The scholar and fighter glanced at each other, then Lorgan held out his hand; she and Verryn already exchanged triggers, as she had with the rest of the mini-Joyful. She set her magic in Lorgan’s palm, and his fingers tickled hers in return. Warmth prickled through her appendage before subsiding.
Another set of shields formed beneath hers, layer upon layer of stout protection. Even without his bragging about being a graduate of Reddown under Lake, she would have realized Lorgan’s training exceeded her small knowledge of Mental Touch.
Verryn studied them with a small, pleased smile. “Nice.”
The mounted ghosts froze so suddenly, Vantra thought they played tricks with their essences. Shimmering clouds formed about them, then grew into tall columns of bright streaks. Beams shot from them and to the wagon, gripping her shields like the bird talons of her previous conflict. Bent rays rose from their heads and connected them to one another, forming a net over the vehicle.
“Do sinbjon e pueplon suom er eustre!” the horse-mounted spirit shouted.
The road, and the mini-Joyful, disappeared in a flash of ashen grey.
